Insomnia
by Guo-Xing Choi
Summary: Abductions of thirty-one young women across Metropolis, Gotham, and New York City appear to be nothing more than an unexplained anomaly.
1. Chapter 1

Title:

Title:Insomnia

Author:Shaan Lien

Category:Gen fic, **not** slash

Rating:R (overall, language)

Summary:Abductions of thirty-one young women across Metropolis, Gotham, and New York City appear to be nothing more than an unexplained anomaly. Yet for the reporters at _The Daily Planet_, the X-Men, and Bruce Wayne, these seemingly unconnected events become more than just random occurrences when Metropolis suddenly becomes home to not one but two "supermen".

Timeline:post Antarctica (X-Men), during _Superman Returns_, post _Dark Knight_

Author's Notes: Draws on _Superman: The Animated Series, Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman, Superman I, Superman II, Superman Returns, Smallville, X-Men_ (the movie, comic, & cartoon), _X-Men 2, Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, _and _Batman: The Animated Series_

one

The East End

Gotham City

They had arrived too late. Not late enough to be confused about just what the hell was going on, but far too late to rescue the girl. Mutants with any number of powers and even run-ins with the fledgling Friends of Humanity organization the X-Men were accustomed to but not men dressed in black sporting assault rifles and handguns. But the middle of Gotham City wasn't a prime location to land the Blackbird, so they drove. Originally, only Scott and Ororo were headed to the New Jersey city, but courtesy of a "bad feeling" from Logan, both he and Remy had followed in the former's Jeep. If Logan's instinct hadn't been based on the grumbled proclamation of "nothing good ever came out of Gotham", Scott Summers would have deemed the declaration uncanny. As it were, the man merely remained a cynic. _Or a realist_, Scott couldn't help but muse.

Diving head first down an alleyway, Cyclops narrowly avoided a spray of bullets. Hand to his visor, Cyclops turned as he fell, knowing that it was one of the men with the assault rifles behind him. The thin ruby red beam shot from his visor and struck the man in the chest, stunning him instantly.

Getting to his feet, Cyclops charged for the end of the alley, hearing more gunfire and ignoring the dull throb of his shoulder from where he had struck the dumpster. The air crackled around him as a bolt of lightning flashed somewhere quite close. On such a clear night as this, Scott could only attribute such a phenomenon to one: Storm.

Two men lay sprawled upon the pavement unconscious, their rifles cleaved into bits by Logan, without a doubt. "Cyke!" a familiar voice rang out from where—Cyclops couldn't tell. "Behind you!"

As he turned, hand to his visor, he knew he hadn't been quick enough as the staccato of gunfire already sounded. Dumpsters, trashcans, wooden pallets, and cardboard boxes lined the alleyway. Against bullets, most wouldn't protect Scott in the least and the dumpster was too far away. At least three dozen cards filled his field of vision, all glowing brightly with that telltale fuchsia signature of building energy. The force of the multiple simultaneous explosions knocked Scott backwards, the leader of the X-Men biting back a cry of pain as he struck the wall of one of the surrounding buildings.

Shaking his head vigorously in a vain attempt to clear his vision, he saw Gambit release his telescopic bo staff to its full length. Holding the staff at the very end, Gambit lashed out. While he wasn't able to knock the rifles from the three men, he did throw off their aim.

Bullets bore into the brick wall and glanced off asphalt. Before Scott could get to his feet, adjusting the focus of his visor as he rose, Gambit launched himself at the men clad in all black.

"Get Ro," Gambit shouted even as his booted feet struck one of the men in the chest and he drove the end of his bo into the neck of another. The concussive force, thin as a book cover, sprang from Scott's visor and struck the third assailant in the shoulder, knocking him back into the wall beyond. The man unconscious before he struck brick.

Cyclops rounded the corner at a run, hand already to his visor, hearing the sputter of automatic assault rifles and bullets ricocheting off surfaces. He bypassed three of the black-clad men lying unconscious on the sidewalk; their weapons fragmented no doubt by Wolverine's foot-long adamantium claws.

Not one to charge recklessly into a situation without surveying it first, Cyclops slowed at the edge of the next building, stopping to glance down the alleyway. Though all had gone quiet, he knew any one of these men could be lying in wait and he was not fond of being shot.

Midway down the alley, Logan was circling two of the men. From the intent in their eyes and the anticipation obvious in their stances, these men were itching for the opportunity to engage someone who would fight back. No matter that Logan had metal claws that came from his hands or was built closely akin to a Mack truck. Like the other three on the sidewalk, their rifles lay in four pieces on ground of the dirty alleyway. "Three more took off down that way," Logan stated without taking his eyes off the two men.

Thinking Logan was distracted, the two men attacked.

With a growl, Logan met their attacks head-on and Scott ran past, knowing Logan would be able to handle these two. Their mission was to save a mutant girl they hadn't even caught sight of yet. One man was already crying out in pain by the time Scott reached the end of the block. He glanced this way and that to see just where the men or Ororo had gone. There wasn't much to go on; the streetlights didn't extend this far into the alley, this was not the best part of Gotham. He slowed his breathing and turned at the first sound, which sounded like a startled feminine cry.

This time he didn't pause or check his surroundings, knowing Storm's voice far too well for caution, knowing these men hadn't hesitated to use their weapons on the X-Men. Focusing quickly on the man who was bent over Storm's dazed form, the ruby-red beam drilled into the man's shoulder before he could even look up, knocking him back into a dumpster unconscious. "Storm," he called out to her, kneeling next to Ororo and holding the white-haired woman by her shoulders, only now sparing a glance to his surroundings.

"They went into that warehouse," Storm managed, hand to her head. "Go, Cyclops. I will be fine."

"Where'd they go?" came Gambit's voice suddenly behind him and Cyclops whirled swiftly, body in front of Storm's, hand to his visor. _Damn that thief_, Cyclops couldn't help but think, knowing he could not scorn the man aloud for moving so silently.

"Into the warehouse," relayed Cyclops as he helped Storm to her feet. "Go around that way." Catching sight of Wolverine approaching them at swift run, he directed, "Wolverine, around front."

For a man often at odds with Scott, Logan took the order in stride. He moved faster and more silently than anyone could expect of a man his size, but then again, none of the X-Men conformed to expectations. When Scott turned away from the sight of Logan's retreating back, Gambit was just turning from Storm and moving away again. _Truth be told, we were unprepared_, Scott had to admit as he jogged down the alley as quietly as possible to reach the side door of the warehouse.

When he stepped into his car back in Westchester, thoughts of a young girl homeless, involved in prostitution, or petty crime had run through his mind. The East End of Gotham City evoked images of poverty, not professional tactical teams. This girl Cerebro had picked out was a low-level mutant at best, but something about all this made Scott think her mutation was a factor. A substantial factor.

If Logan hadn't insisted that he and Remy tag along, they would have been a lot worse off, but they still lacked their uniforms and communications equipment. As it was, frightened children didn't respond well to three grown men dressed in odd uniforms. Gambit was another issue entirely, if Scott had thought this would be anything but run-of-the-mill, he wouldn't have brought along the recently returned Cajun who didn't seem at all like he was ready for a mission.

Testing the doorknob of the steel warehouse door, Scott found it to be locked, but easily solved that problem by slicing through the deadbolt with the laser-like beam that constantly emitted from his eyes. He opened the door slowly, checking behind him to see how close Storm was.

In this darkness, he could make out figures, but not much detail; however, Storm wouldn't be able to see anything. Fortunate in some ways for the men accompanying them, Gambit and Wolverine wouldn't have difficulty with the lack of illumination.

Unfortunately, the warehouse wasn't empty. Crates, boxes, and metal freight containers were stacked anywhere from ten to fifteen feet high. Storm certainly wasn't the best to have in close combat situations, but he sent the tall woman off in the opposite direction, knowing from years of experience that she could fend for herself. Stealing down the length of the building, Scott headed for the stairwell that would lead up to the catwalk overlooking the warehouse floor. The only purpose for the tactical team to go in here was for a shortcut or if they had a vehicle waiting for them. This certainly wasn't their base of operations, especially for such a seemingly well-oiled machine.

A flare of fuchsia to the left was accompanied by a loud bang and soon after followed by gunfire. Scott was running, down the catwalk, not caring how much noise his boots were making on the metal grating as he took the stairs down three at a time.

He jumped the last run of stairs completely, with gunfire still echoing, and the warehouse illuminated in spurts with each object Gambit charged.

Just as he cleared the last aisle of stacked pallets and storage racks, Cyclops saw something or rather some_one_ swoop down through the loading bay of the rear of the warehouse and barrel into three of the men of the tactical team.

Simultaneously, one of the rifles aimed at Remy started to glow, two playing cards were speeding towards two other men, and Wolverine had launched himself, claws extended at the four remaining men. Explosions sounded as two men cried out in agony as Logan drove his claws into places not fatal, but most certainly incapacitating.

The men thudded to the ground and only four of the seven men tackled to the ground got up. Two, however, were immediately felled by Cyclops' own input, a flash of lightning downed another, and then there was just one left standing. But in the blink of an eye, that man was on the ground as well, out cold.

Silence followed the incredibly brief takedown of what remained of the tactical team. All five of them stood motionlessly, listening for any sign that someone remained, but all they heard was the resounding wail of police sirens approaching. Cyclops was surprised it took them this long, but that thought was lost when he realized who stood next to Gambit.

The Batman crouched down to pull the mask off one of the unconscious men, while Gambit and Wolverine zeroed-in on the two conscious men. One was writhing in pain from whatever wound Wolverine had inflicted upon him and the other just lay there, panting heavily. Logan ripped off the mask, but Gambit addressed the man, that hypnotic quality in his voice that Scott had only heard in his tone several times before in the past years.

"Tell me who you work for," Gambit said slowly, his eyes glowing brightly in a way the leader of the X-Men had never seen before. The strong Cajun accent was gone from his voice; Gambit had been known to drop the accent well aware that the drawl made him stand out far too much.

"I don't know," the man panted out, his eyes not diverting from Remy's in the least. "Donovan takes care of all that."

"Donovan?" prompted Gambit.

"Donovan Hammond," came the answer after a few gasped breaths. "O God, it hurts."

"Who's the girl?"

"Some mutie with regenerative abilities."

Gambit glanced briefly to Wolverine, who only responded by crossing his arms over his chest. "Where are the other girls?" The gravelly voice Cyclops didn't recognize. It came from Batman, who now stood behind Gambit's crouched form. _I wonder who he is that he disguises his voice_, flitted through the back of Scott's mind.

The man's eyes left Remy's face, his gaze seeming a bit unfocused for a minute as he looked to Batman. His expression grew hardened even as he pressed his hands to the steadily bleeding wounds at his side. "Fuck you, you costumed freak."

A cry rang through the warehouse as Gambit grabbed the man by the front of his body armor and hauled him close. "I want the names of the girls you've taken." The man's gaze locked with Remy's again and though he opened his mouth to respond, no words passed his lips. "Tell me the names of the women you've abducted."

"Sadie Docherty, Naomi Aitken, Taylor Decker, Teresa Valdez, Darcie Morin," the man rattled off quickly and Gambit released him. With a grunt of pain, the man slumped back on the warehouse floor.

Storm spoke up from next to Cyclops, "The police will arrive any moment, we do not need to be seen here."

Batman was gone in the time it took for Scott to glance to Storm and back to him again, though his sudden disappearance did not garner any attention from Gambit or Wolverine. "Let's go."


	2. Chapter 2

two

two

Yankee Stadium

880 River Ave.

Bronx, New York

He flew straight down, almost faster than he had flown before and he was gradually picking up speed. Both of the plane's wings were gone now, but that only served to stop the uncontrollable spin of the plane. The 777 was picking up speed too, heading straight for Yankee Stadium. From here, amidst all the other sounds, the cheers from the fans, the families, the men, women, and children in the stadium stood out.

Abruptly the plane stopped. It came to such a complete standstill without jarring the plane or the passengers and crew that if it weren't for the noise of the world around him, Kal-El would have thought time had stopped. In reality, the plane remained for only a few milliseconds before it started to tip. Superman adjusted his speed, his course, and snagged the back of the plane, lowering it to the Astroturf of the stadium.

Applause and cheers sounded throughout the stadium, not one person remained in their seat. He, the man—the alien—called Superman, resisted the urge to cover his ears; everything seemed so much louder since he had returned to Earth. People's cries throughout the Earth, their shouts, screams, and sighs, everything, verged on being deafening, overwhelming.

Only after he settled the plane on the ground and flew towards the door of the airliner did he see the person who had stopped the plane. This was the person along with Batman and the growing mutant phenomena that had dominated the headlines in his long absence from earth. _The Daily Planet_ had a much different name for this "superhero" than 'Superman' or 'The Bat Man', but Jai Lèi. It meant beautiful tears, hardly a masculine name, nor was the figure of the person not two hundred feet away from him masculine. Easily he could look through the featureless mask that covered her face, but he didn't, it seemed unfair and at the very least, unnecessary.

He gave the woman a curt nod before flying up to the plane and pulling the door open. Stepping into the plane, he let his eye sweep over the reporters, journalists, and the single cameraman on the plane, though he did not deny his eyes found Lois Lane first. Each one he checked for injuries, which were minor, thankfully enough. The silence amongst the reporters as they tried to process the ordeal they had just endured would not last, that he knew.

"Is everyone all right?" he asked, earning him a few wordless nods and one exasperated huff. "Are you okay?" he could not help but ask of Lois.

A few minutes later, he found himself flying over the Westside Highway near 58th Street. There was a section of the bank cordoned off; a white sheet covered the body of a young woman who had not simply drowned, who had not simply been murdered. He hovered high above the crime scene, watching Jai Lei interact with two detectives below. The uniformed officers regarded Jai Lei in a wariness they did not hold for him.

He could not hear the conversation between the detectives and Jai Lei and he wondered if this was one of her abilities. Enough he could learn by watching the techs photograph and collect evidence and the conversations of the patrolmen and the few people who stopped to watch. Kal-El merely waited. When she broke away from the police detectives, Kael floated down to speak with her.

"Welcome back," Jai Lei offered, her voice disguised electronically so that it sounded both male and female at times.

"Thank you and thank you for stopping the plane."

"Sorry, I didn't know you were there," came the reply. It was difficult to tell emotion or inflection from the computerized voice and impossible to determine it from the mask she wore. "I've never tried to manipulate something that big before."

"What happened to the woman?"

She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. Like Batman, she wore all black, but this was not body armor she wore, nor did she wear a cape. The very purpose of her "uniform" seemed to conceal her identity. "There have been several kidnappings out of Gotham, Metropolis, and Manhattan lately. Kidnappings and murders of Jane Does and sometimes I can figure out who they are—faster than the police can anyway."

"Is that what you do, help the police?"

"No, not really," she admitted. "I don't think 'caped crusader' and 'credible source' are synonymous in the eyes of the Courts."

"Apparently not," he agreed, his thoughts going to the recently paroled Lex Luthor.

"Be careful, though, there's more to this than random kidnappings and murders."

"Did you tell the police?"

"You should talk to our mutual friend," she said without answering the question, though she turned her head back to the crime scene as if she were considering it, "he's been looking after Metropolis while you were away."

"Mutual friend?"

"The Bat Man," she mocked conspiratorially and then disappeared.

When he used the word 'disappeared', he did not mean that she flew off suddenly or slipped away the moment a distraction cropped up, but she vanished into thin air, as it was often said.

He did seek out their mutual friend, though if she was aware of the Dark Knight of Gotham City was also Bruce Wayne, he wasn't sure, but doubted it intensely. He didn't seek out his friend merely because of Jai Lei, but also because he hadn't seen the other man since he had returned. Finding Bruce (or Batman) for that matter, was no easy task even if the younger man kept himself to Gotham City. Before he left for Krypton, he might have tried to find his voice, during certain times of day, he was sure to hear it; at night was a different matter. Now, he felt as if he had such tenuous control over his abilities. Even flying took some concentration.

He found Bruce at Wayne Manor—well, under it, technically—sleeves rolled up to the elbow, doing repairs on a vehicle Clark had never seen before. Something must have happened to the Tumbler, he reasoned. There was certainly more to the network of caves beneath Bruce's mansion now than when he left five years ago, the least of which wasn't the alarm he apparently set off when entering the caves through the waterfall. The start of the beeping earned him a glare from Bruce as the slightly shorter man climbed to his feet and moved to the long table awash with electronics, computer monitors, and folders.

"Sorry," Clark offered somewhat sheepishly. "That's new."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

Clark just shook his head, moving away from the swirl of bats to Bruce's work area. A lot of work it seemed Bruce had put into this in the time that Clark had been away. "No," he admitted, "Krypton was nothing more than . . . there was nothing left, and Rao was nothing more than a neutron star."

Bruce looked up at him from where he was packing away his tools, but went back to it after just a moment. "And?"

"And I'm back to work at _The Daily Planet_ and Lois, she has a son."

"I know." With a _thunk_, Bruce sat the toolbox on one of the tables, and then faced Clark completely. "He looks like you."

Clark sunk into Bruce's chair, wanting to be wearing anything other than the crest of the house of El blazon upon his chest. Five years . . . five years ago he had made Lois forget, forget him, forget _them_, but they had a son. A five-year-old son, his son, who called another man 'daddy'. "She's with someone else."

"I know."

His vision focused and he looked up to Bruce, who sat perched on the workbench, looking down at him with none of the impatience that he seemed to garner from Bruce with very little effort. "He seems like a good man."

"I know."

"What happened to the Tumbler?" Clark asked, ceding the chair to its owner, who surprisingly did not move to take it up.

"It self-destructed," was the succinct response as if that relayed the entire story behind the demise of Wayne Enterprises' prototype bridging vehicle.

"On its own?"

"It had help."

"So who made this one?"

"I did. Aimee and I."

Clark's eyebrows shot up at a woman's name coming so casually from Bruce's lips. "Aimee? Who's Aimee?"

"A friend."

"A friend," Clark echoed at length as Bruce deposited himself in chair and swiveled to face the array of computer monitors. "As in just a friend, a friend as in colleague, or as in something more than a friend?" No response, which did nothing at all to discourage him. "Can I meet her?"

That earned a response: Bruce's almost perpetual glare turned away from the computer monitors and to the more deserving recipient of said glare, Clark Kent. Whatever retort he was about to make was interrupted by Alfred, who had descended into the caves by an old elevator. "Master Wayne, your lunch with Miss Rune is in a half hour."

"Thanks, Alfred."

"Of course, sir," Alfred replied and then caught sight of Clark. "Master Kent, welcome back."

"Alfred," Clark greeted, hugging the old butler more carefully than he had the last time he'd seen the other man. "It's good to see you."

"And you, Master Kent, though I do say you are looking rather tired."

"They don't make intergalactic travel like they used to."

"I suspect not."

"Bruce, I did actually have something I wanted to ask you about."

Bruce stopped in the middle of the corridor that led to the elevator and turned. "Jai Lei?"

"How did you know?"

Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly. "You caught a plane," he seemed compelled to remind Clark. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you trust her?"

"With my life."

•••

It wasn't long at all until he ran into the woman called Jai Lei again. Not long at all, in fact, and in Metropolis, no less. She had appeared between the officers responding to a bank robbery and a man with a Gatling gun. Her method of protecting the police officers from the spray of bullets was drastically different from how Kal-El deflected the bullets from the bank's security guards. The bullets had ricocheted off his chest; they had struck him with enough force that even he couldn't ignore them completely. However, Jai Lei stood there between the patrolmen in flak jackets, stationed behind their squad cars with shotguns and semi-automatics at the ready. The bullets struck into a shimmering barrier that could have come from no other than Jai Lei and dropped harmlessly to the ground.

She appeared at the very edge of the roof after the Gatling gun had expended its long magazine and watched as Kal-El incapacitated four men and deposited them with the police. She stood off to the side as if she wasn't certain if she was needed here anymore or not, not after seeing the bank robber shoot Superman directly in the eye. "You've been busy," she remarked once he flew up to join her. "A shipwreck in Hong Kong, a bombing in the Philippines, that mudslide in Indonesia . . . is it true that time slows down the closer you get to the speed of light?" she asked.

"I don't actually know how fast I fly."

"I'll stay out of your city now that you're back," she offered, "I mean, I can't stay out of it because I still live here, but I'll, oh you know what I mean."

"We're both on the same side."

She rose up a little higher, over the height of the buildings, then pulled of her cowl, wiping the thin layer of sweat from her top lip. Off Kal's look of utter surprise at the casual revelation of her identity, she spoke, "You're Superman, I figured if you wanted to know you could. Besides, you're Bats' friend."

"Bats?"

"I'd never call him that in public, of course."

"Of course," Kal echoed with amusement. "Kal-El," he said extending his hand.

"Aimee Rune."

The surprise he wasn't sure he was able to keep off his face. "And he knows who you are?"

"Of course."

"And you know who he is?"

"Of course."

"Then do you know who I am?"

"Superman."

He smiled at the frank answer as she put her cowl back on, but his attention drifted away from her at the sounds of catastrophe, of human agony and fear in the distance. "I have to go."

"Sure, see you around, Superman."


	3. Chapter 3

three

three

Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters

1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Centre

Westchester County, New York

Cigarette dangling between his middle and index finger, the gray ash and glowing embers captivated Remy's attention as if the cheap cig held the answers to his very existence. The moonlight reflecting upon the lake before him was beautiful even through the ruby-quartz that shielded Scott Summers' own eyes. The trees surrounding the lake cast shows upon the water, the light seeming to separate into thousands of rays of pure white light as it passed through the eaves of those trees. Reclined in one of the chairs on the back porch of the boathouse, Remy had his ankles crossed, feet up on the banister.

"Gonna stand there all night, homme?" Remy asked, flicking off the ash from the end of his cigarette, then took a long drag. Coupled with the glow of Remy's red eyes, the brooding demeanor, and the smoke that was exhaled from the Cajun's nose, Scott had the idea of why Remy was being avoided like the plague by even the students who were quite fond of the easy-going young man, closer to their age—presumably—than any other of the teachers.

Scott said nothing, only moved to take the seat next to Gambit, looking out at the lake instead of the nothingness that enthralled Remy. "This isn't meant to be a punishment."

"You said dat already. Remy understood the first time," came the curt response. The normally smooth voice was rougher than Scott expected, almost hoarse.

"No one understands."

Silence.

"I want to."

"You don't," Remy said shortly, his accent heavy. He rose with those words, flicking away the cigarette, which exploded soundlessly before it hit the ground. Powder and ash. "Nobody else want to either. I see their understandin' in their eyes . . . yours too, Cyke."

Scott winced when the screen door banged shut behind Remy. He needed to talk to the younger man, this needed to be addressed, but he didn't think he had the energy for it tonight. Any given day of the week, Remy tended to be difficult to get along with and after Antarctica. . . . This was something he should have done the instant Remy had returned, he was the team leader after all; it was no one's responsibility except his. This . . . exile to the boathouse hadn't helped matters like he had hoped, not in the least.

Upon entering the boathouse, Remy stood at the counter pouring hot water slowly into the coffee maker. It was a spacious kitchen all white with black granite countertops, Shaker style, similar to the mansion, but smaller and at the moment, cleaner and bare. The coffee smelled of the chicory that he had seen Remy drink a few times over the years. . . . Years, close to five years now. Scott was about as familiar with the brown leather duster lying over one of the stools as he was with its owner. And that wasn't very familiar at all.

Remy had long reddish brown hair that hung below his broad shoulders and a slender build that was also solid and muscular in a way that should not have been able to coexist. Remy, who was barely shorter than Scott himself, but weighed or was supposed to weigh about twenty pounds less. It was clear to Scott as he sat on one of the stools surrounding the island of the kitchen that the Cajun had lost some weight.

"Remy . . ." Scott began slowly, but then stopped. Truth be told, he didn't know where to begin with Remy, this was probably the longest conversation he had had with the younger man that wasn't related to the school or a mission. His words died in his throat as he stared at the back of Remy's tailored button-down shirt that remained untucked, made of what must have been silk.

"Coffee?" Remy asked after a long while of neither speaking, just the sound of the coffee percolating.

"No, thank you. . . . I owe you an apology."

"_Non,_ you don't."

"Let me talk, Remy."

Now Remy turned to face Scott, his gloved hands braced on the counter, his red eyes fixed pointedly at Scott. Unsurprisingly, Remy hadn't bothered to turn on the light when he had entered, darkness not a problem for him. The moonlight through the bay window cast shadows upon Remy's angular features. "I should have dealt with it when you came back and I should have set things straight. You owed us nothing. Yes, what happened was unspeakable, but you owed us nothing. You have never failed this team—never—and none of us can pass judgment with our own pasts. I know I asked you to come out here, but this isn't working."

"_Non_."

The reply was simple, straightforward, and resolute. Scott knew then that whatever else he said would be a waste of breath. "It's your home as much as anyone else's. Don't let Warren, Bobby, Ro, and Rogue drive you out of it."

"It ain't that," Remy stated softly as he turned back to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Then what? For God's sake, talk to me for once."

With a short sigh, Remy approached setting the cup of coffee on the countertop of the island between them. "You know how Remy survived up there?"

"No, you never said."

His eyes were as distant as his tone, distanced so far that he had taken once more to referring to himself in the third person. That much Scott knew about the man before him, the man who could wear a very nearly pink shirt that most men would have scoffed at the notion of donning. The thief raised his hand and pulled off his gloves, which only completely covered two fingers—long, skilled, nimble fingers and a hand that never shook. The familiar fuchsia glow enveloped Remy's hand but continued to coil up his arm, under shirtsleeves that soon after began to glow as well. "You charged yourself?"

A slight nod and the glow faded gradually until it was just wisps of power sparking at his fingertips. He looked as if he was about to speak and Scott waited patiently, his eyes not leaving Remy's. "Remy's powers were out of control, that's why he went to Sinister. Didn't know who he was, just introduced hisself as Dr. Nathaniel Essex. Dat's what he was to R—to me, a scientist, just a scientist who wanted to help. I—I couldn't touch anything, couldn't look at anything without blowing it up . . . couldn't sleep without charging the goddamned bed. I'd killt too many people to be picky about offers for help. Sinister, he put a chip in my head supposed ta control my power, let me only access some of it and not even all of my power."

"Your hypnotic charm."

Remy shook his head. "Ain't just charm, _mon ami,_ it empathy when it's turned up. It's how I got my shields, keeping out everyone else's feelin's 'fore I went crazy. Think I might have done anyway."

"And what? Your empathy is coming back?"

"It broke, Cyke. The fucking thing must have short-circuited and it all comin' back. Like a dam that about to burst. Remy ain't an alpha, he an omega at full power."

"Maybe Jean can—"

"—_Non!_" Remy shouted, slamming a hand down on the counter. "Don't you get it? Rogue left me out dere cause of what she saw in me. Nearly lost it after Israel because of what's in my head. Ain't for nobody else but me. Sinister couldn't help me control it, why you think Jeannie be able to? She ain't no energy converter, just a 'path. She ain't got no business in my mind, it'd kill her or drive her crazy."

"Then how do you live with it?"

"Cause I got to. My memories, aren't they? My pain, my destruction, my hurt. No one else need to get hurt cause of me."

"You can feel everyone in the mansion's emotions. You have to create shields against those emotions or you are going to be driven to insanity. Is that why you're not eating?"

The murmured response Scott didn't hear as he was once more presented with Remy's back. Now Scott rose and rounded the island, Remy seeming as though he was in his own world as he stared into his cup of coffee. "Remy?"

"Can't sleep. Nightmares, I can't shut them out like I used to." The Cajun turned his head sharply as if listening to something and Scott stilled in reaction, knowing Remy's senses seemed just as keen as Logan's at times. The cup of coffee was forgotten on the countertop and no sooner had Remy started to the door did he stop and relax, turning back to Scott. "Jus' Logan."

Scott heard the front door of the boathouse open and shut and the two men stood there not far from each other until Logan entered the kitchen already speaking, a six pack in hand. "Hey, Cajun, don't nobody use the locks around here?"

"Ain't no point, _homme_, anyone who want 'ole Remy just break it down anyway," Remy said offhandedly as he moved to turn on the kitchen light, putting on his black polarized sunglasses at the same time.

"Cyke," Logan greeted in a gruff tone that hardly surprised Scott. After thunking the six pack on the counter, Logan's sharp eyes fixed on Remy even as he handed the man nearly a foot taller than him a can of beer. "You okay, kid?"

"If I say 'yes' will you believe me?"

"No."

"Den why you ask?"

"Don't be a smart ass."

"Aw, that just mean, _homme_. Gambit is a smartass. Like breathin'."

"Why don't you not be yourself for five minutes and tell me what the hell is wrong with ya."

"You sweet, Logan. All that love and concern 'bout near brought me to tears."

"Can it, Cajun. Don't look like you could go two rounds with my big toe right about now."

Scott could only cross his arms over his chest and observe the odd pair critically. Logan, all thick and muscular, adamantium skeleton, barely coming up to the middle of Remy's chest. Logan, who barreled into the conversation the same way he did life more often than not, but Scott knew beneath the gruff demeanor, Logan cared about Remy, considered the much younger man a true friend.

Remy glanced over at Scott with some annoyance. "Y'all got a schedule or something back up at the mansion? Tonight be 'worry about Remy' night?"

"One look at you, boy, anyone'd be worried. You look like shit. Thought you said you'd go to Hank for some sleeping pills?"

"Did like I said," Remy returned defensively. "Didn't do nothin'. Hank said he couldn't give me anything stronger until he knew more about my physiology. Wasn't about to stay down dere dat long."

"When was the last time you slept?" Scott asked and watched as Remy visibly deflated.

"Just leave me be, _oui_? Remy take care of hisself just fine. Survived dis long, hasn't he?"

"Ain't no shame in needin' help. You've done the same for me any number of times and I'll never forget it."

That quieted the solemn auburn-haired man. Even from where he stood, Scott heard his sudden intake of breath, Remy running a hand through his hair as he looked up at the ceiling. "I can't stay here."

"If your powers are going to spike, where else can you go?"

"I blew up a whole damn theatre last time. You want me to be anywhere near those children? I'm trying to get a handle on it, but with de empathy . . ." Dismally, he shook his head, shoving both hands into his pockets until he came up with a pack of cigarettes. Before he could shake out a single cigarette, the pack flared up and exploded. The sound was muffled, but was accompanied by an earnest curse from Remy.

Logan had taken a half step back and Scott had flinched at the explosion, but Remy seemed to take it personally. The ashes were still smoking in Remy's hands and Scott watched the Cajun allow the ashes to flutter to the floor. Before Scott saw the quavering of Remy's shoulders, Logan was reaching out for the younger man, but Remy was backing away in the same instant, knocking into the island.

The fuchsia, amorphous glow of Remy's power was returning, but not just from his hands. "Pull it back in, Rems," Logan directed firmly.

"I can't, Logan!" Remy returned at nearly an exasperated sob, sliding to the ground and pressing his face into his knees. He was rocking back and forth, the glow now encompassing his entire body. "Get out of here."

"Pull it back in," Logan ordered loudly now.

"Logan . . ." Scott warned. The energy hadn't spread yet, but the last thing Scott wanted was for Remy to blow himself up. He could handle cigarettes and playing cards exploding, even the damn boathouse, but not a good man right before his eyes.

Blatantly ignoring Scott's caveat, Logan crouched down before Remy, who was rocking faster now. Scott could feel the heat coming from the younger man's direction—all those molecules excited even in himself resulting in heat. "Kid . . ." Logan said softly almost soothingly and Scott didn't think he had ever heard that tone of voice from the Canadian before.

Scott could easily hear Remy's heavy breathing and he didn't know how to help at all. Then suddenly Remy was moving, stumbling away from them, banging through the screen door without touching it. He was peeling off his now sweat drenched shirt as he went, it glowing too. Sweeping across the porch, Remy held on to the shirt, charging it up, and then flinging it out to the lake.

It wasn't much of an explosion, but it reduced the shirt to nothing more than particles. Still glowing, Remy screamed out in frustration, dropping to his knees and clutching his skull.

Jean! he called out, not knowing what she could do, but even the most infinitesimal amount of help was better than just standing here, doing nothing, watching a man break down in front of him. This was more than just his powers, so much more.

And then, that was it. Remy collapsed to the ground, power winking out like LA during a brownout, his body shaking. Audible sobs came from the young man as Scott moved forward before he could even think about what had just happened.


	4. Chapter 4

four

four

Logan picked up Remy without any hesitation and carried the taller but much lighter man back inside. Scott followed quickly, after assuaging Jean's concerns as best as he could. Logan was muttering something about Remy burning up as he took the younger man up the stairs to the master bathroom. Remy's eyes were closed tightly as Logan sat him on the lid of the toilet, his hands clenched into fists, sweating heavily, trembling visibly. Scott immediately went around Logan to the tub and set to filling it up with cold water. Without reluctance or uncertainty, Logan undressed the Cajun, not fazed in the least by disrobing another man. He was helping a teammate, a friend, and that was always enough for Logan.

"Can't take him to the med lab," Logan murmured as he lifted Remy into the tub.

"No, it'd only upset him more."

"Aimee," Remy whispered suddenly as he let his hands drop into the water.

At that name, Scott's head jerked up. "Aimee? Aimee Rune?"

"You know her?" Logan asked as he eased Remy back in the cold water.

"Yeah, we might still have her address on file, I'm not sure if Jean would be able to contact her telepathically. . . . I'll send Hank."

"You think this Aimee will be able to help him?"

"If anyone can."

With that, Scott was gone, Logan left with Remy, whose now fevered body was heating the water around him. "Rems . . . come on, I know you can control this."

"Too much energy. Don't . . . don't know what to do with it. Can't do nothing with it."

"You're gonna kill yourself like this, kid."

"Can't help it," he said shaking his head, sitting up in the tub. He was trembling now, his whole body as he gripped the sides of the tub with his bare hands. "How do you live with it, Logan?"

"With what?"

"Y' feral side. I can feel it."

"Ain't got no choice in it. It's quieter, most days."

"Why it so loud now?"

"You're hurting, Rems, and I can't do nothin' but sit here and watch you kill yourself slowly. Even without your charge . . . starvation takes a hell of a long time."

"Not trying. . . . Woulda just sat my ass down on de ice if I wanted to die. Besides, can think of much prettier ways to die."

"Who's this Aimee?"

"Aimee Rune," Remy said, wiping the tears and water from his face. "Powerful girl, not much younger than me, maybe 23 or 24 now, I suppose. Essex took some interest in her, she worked for some law firm in LA, an assassin for them, I guess. They had done some work on her, kinda like what de military do to you. Dey wanted Essex to figure out how to clone her."

"Did he?"

"Naw, Aimee ain't no mutant. Don't like nobody touching her either. Smart, though, helped Essex design the chip they put in my head. Jus a kid, though. They kept her on some drug and kept wiping her memory. She grew too powerful for that after a while. Eventually she remembered everything, remembered who she was—jus' some Cath'lic schoolgirl who liked science fiction movies. Course, she remember everything she done, everyone she's hurt."

"That the last time you saw her?"

"Near enough . . . eight years ago. Even if she can't repair de chip, she very powerful."

"She ain't a mutant."

"Non. Essex never found de mutant-X gene in her, but telepathy, telekinesis, teleportation, she can do all those things. Think maybe dat law firm had something to do with it, me."

Logan rested a heavy hand on Remy's hot shoulder. "Damn it, kid," he said reaching for the plug and draining the now lukewarm water. As he let the water drain, he flipped on the shower head, Remy shivering when the water hit him.

"I can't fall asleep, Logan. I can't control it like I used to." His voice was shaking as much as his body, so unusual for the traditionally rock steady Cajun.

"Hank's here," Logan said after a few minutes of watching Remy carefully, but he didn't seem to be in any danger of falling asleep.

"Can feel him," Remy murmured. "Merci, mon ami . . . for everything."

"You ain't gotta thank me, Gumbo."

"I should."

"Suit yourself, but I'll be here for as long as you need."

There was a sad laugh from Remy as Logan heard Hank's footsteps on the stairs. "Forever okay with you, homme? You steady, predictable. I think I always know where I stand with you. Your emotions they strong and even the feral side don't feel so bad. It kinda comforting, though it shouldn't be. Maybe I ain't explainin' it well."

"Naw, I know what you're saying, kid."

Remy just nodded, not looking up when Hank McCoy entered the bathroom. Logan just glanced back and shifted to the side, not sure how Remy would take being alone with the other man, especially since Hank was a doctor. "Scott tells me you are having difficulty controlling your empathy and biokinetic charge . . . Are you charging yourself, Remy?"

"Non, just a lot of energy built up inside. Can't let it go . . . too many minds, feelin's in the mansion to go to the Danger Room."

"You're exciting the cells in your body which in turn is raising your temperature. Fascinating—however, highly dangerous. Your cells won't be able to take such high temperatures for long."

"Got any ideas, Hank?" asked Logan.

"Yes, though our young Cajun will not like it."

"You want to put a collar on me, Hank?"

"It seems like the only feasible solution at present. I know very little about your physiology, much less the extent and nature of your power—"

"—it won't work, not completely."

"Why not?"

"Empathy's too strong for that."

"My primary concern is your charge, my friend, which is attempting to destroy you from the inside out."

"It don't work dat way, Hank. I control de empathy; the charge ain't that much of a problem. There's too much, too many feelings and thoughts and anger."

"We can put you in a psi-shield."

"Back at the mansion," Logan pointed out.

"The emotions will overwhelm you that quickly?"

"I could take out the mansion, Hank."

"Jean and Betsy could help you with your shields until we reach the lab," Hank suggested to Remy, who only hung his head.

"Don't look like you got much of a choice, Gumbo. Burnin' yourself up from the inside out ain't gonna be pretty either."

"Gotta get dressed."

•••

3:42. Normally, Scott might hesitate calling at such an hour, but with one of his teammates dying because of his own power, he didn't pause. Finding Aimee Rune's number had taken some doing; the prolific author certainly wasn't listed in the phone book. It rang four times before a sleepy feminine voice came over the line. The voice he recognized from years ago, many years ago and naturally, the voice had matured. "Hello?"

"Aimee?" he prompted urgently. "This is Scott Summers from Xavier's School for the Gifted."

A pause, then: "I remember. What can I do for you, Mr. Summers?"

The tone had turned guarded. Aimee had been one they hadn't been able to help and those were the ones he could never forget. "About Remy LeBeau, I understand that you're a friend of his."

"That's right," came the now worried response, "is he all right? Is something wrong?"

"His powers are spiking."

"I'll be right there."

"He's at the med lab at the school."

"I'll be there in two minutes."

Scott rose from Hank's desk in the tidy office just off the med lab and went into the infirmary itself, occupied by Jean, Hank, and a pacing Wolverine; Remy lay on the examination table in the center of the room, his anxiety about being in the aseptic environment under the care of a doctor was obvious by more than just the rapid beeping of the monitor Hank had him hooked up to.

"Aimee said she—" Scott's words died in his throat when the woman in question suddenly appeared not five feet from the exam table. Jean jumped in start, putting a hand to her heart; Logan made to advance, but Scott quickly held up a hand to stop him.

"Somethin' wrong with the front door, darlin'?" Logan growled out, hands clenched into fists.

Aimee glanced back at him, looked briefly to Scott before focusing her full attention on Remy. "Hey," she greeted the man prone upon the elevated table, her eyes flicking to the monitors then resting on the cajun's red and black eyes.

"Cher," Remy greeted in reply, his voice tired, his disposition restrained by his exhaustion. A shaking hand he raised from the exam table and Aimee took it immediately, the concern on her face doubling. "That was fast."

"Mr. Summers sounded worries," she offered by way of explanation, "besides, you were the only decent one back then."

"Weren't your fault."

"What are you doing here?"

"My powers are out of control," Remy supplied though Scott thought her question was more than general than why the young mutant was lying flat on his back in a med-lab. "T'ink mebbe I broke that chip and the charge's buildin', not to mention de empathy."

Aimee bit the inside of her bottom lip and looked up to Hank. "What does he need?"

"The biokenetic energy Remy produces is exciting the cells in his body, I believe an excess is being stored, in turn generating heat. Already his temperature is 103.8 despite our attempts to keep him cool. If it rises above 104 degrees, then brain damage will not be our only concern."

Quickly Aimee reached across to snag Remy's other hand. "Drain your energy into me."

"Hein?"

"Charge me," Aimee insisted, "get rid of the energy."

"Non, mon cher," Remy said trying to free his hand from hers, "just hopin' mebbe you could repair the chip, no need for heroics. Remy jus' a little warm is all."

"No heroics, Remy," Aimee reassured him, "I can handle your charge. Come on, it's your turn to trust me. This is more immediate than the chip."

Remy hesitated. In watching the two, Scott couldn't determine what was the extent of their relationship. When she appeared, Remy had relaxed visibly and the monitor's incessant, hurried beeping slowed marginally; the concern evident on her face told Scott they were friends, but the way Remy had livened suggested more. "I can't hurt you, Aimee."

"You won't, I promise," she insisted. "You look like hell, has anyone told you that recently?"

"Oui, about an hour ago."

"Good."

Color blossomed between their hands. Reddish purple wisps coiled up Aimee's arms and for all intents and purposes melted into her. With each throb of energy, the temperature read out on the monitor decreased and his heart rate descended into safe territory. As Scott watched, he could discern no ill effects from Aimee and Remy merely relaxed further and closed his eyes, the ebb of energy unending for several long minutes. Then, eventually, the flow of energy ceased and gently, Aimee rested Remy's hands on his stomach and looked to Hank.

"Is the psi shield working?"

"He says that it helps, but its incapable of providing the extensive shielding our young empath requires."

"Then turn it off, I'll shield his mind."

"Remy is quite a powerful empath, as it turns out, are you certain you are capable of providing the shielding necessary?"

Aimee nodded, wrapping her arms around her stomach in a testimony to an uneasiness that Scott couldn't put his finger on. "Yeah, I'm sure." Now her blue eyes turned to Scott. "How did he manage to damage the chip?"

The question was plainly for him and she obviously expected him to know. "He charged himself to stay alive," Scott replied, uncertain how recently she had last seen Remy. "He said it must have short-circuited."

"There's a lot of tension here," Aimee admitted, clearly uncomfortable either because of the tension or because of something else. "I don't think it's a good idea for him to stay here. He doesn't like doctors much either."

"Kids stayin' at the boathouse," Logan put in from somewhere behind Scott, "bout a half mile away, enough to quiet all the shit from here."

"I want him at the mansion until he recovers," Scott asserted, ignoring the implications of Logan's statement.

"Scott, are you sure that's for the best?" Jean stepped in, surprising Scott with her concern. "Aimee's right, there are a lot of people, a lot of emotions here, and a lot of strong emotions directed towards him. He doesn't need the additional stress even without his powers."

"He can't be looked after at the boathouse."

"I'm stayin' with him," Logan declared, "he'll be fine."

"Wait until he wakes up, Logan," Scott insisted firmly, then looked back to Aimee. "There's room for you as well."

She looked slowly to him, a hint of sadness in her suddenly tired eyes. "You can't help me."

"Maybe you could help us," Scott countered unexpectedly. "We could use it, that and we're down an art and French teacher at the moment."

"Where's the Professor?"

Scott's jaw worked for a moment. "Muir Island and will be for a while."

"I'll be back when he wakes up."


End file.
